


Sincerely, Dedue

by augustfai



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Minor Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz, Minor Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Minor Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustfai/pseuds/augustfai
Summary: Hello, everyone. I am happy to hear that the Almyran vegetable stew was so popular. It is very nutritious, and good for everyone, not just those expecting. For everyone asking how to procure high-quality vegetables, I always recommend going to your local market and getting to know the farmers in your community. You can also have produce shipped from Almyran farms. However, all of my recipes can be made using whatever ingredients you have on hand. What matters most is the care you put into making it.Today I have a question for you all. What tastes like home to you?Sincerely, Dedue.Dedue runs a food blog.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 60





	Sincerely, Dedue

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the original Google Doc was "in this house every day is deduesday." Thank you to M for reading this over and planting the seed of this fic in the first place (+ many other fics that have not been written yet + sending me links on how to make cheese). 
> 
> This AU is set in modern Fodlan, where a war happened, but the Tragedy of Duscur did not.

_Hello, my dear followers. I hope you are all well. Today’s blog post is all about shiitake mushrooms, which can grow in the spring, summer, or fall. I encourage all of you to find locally grown shiitake mushrooms at your markets._

_Or you can grow your own, as I do._

_Sincerely, Dedue._

i.

It is four in the morning when Dedue leaves the house.

Faerghus is in a heatwave, which means that it’s somewhat chilly out when he locks the door. He has his work clothes on—sturdy overalls, thick gloves, and a small paisley-patterned bandana tucked into his pocket. It serves no real use, but it was a gift from his friends on his last birthday, so he always brings it with him.

The sun is a firefly in the rearview mirror as he drives swiftly down highways flanked by trees, the woods thickening the further out he goes. Soon the houses are just colorful dots sitting in yellow grass. Soon those too disappear.

It is six, and nearly dawn, when Dedue reaches his destination: a farm with an orchard in a small pocket of land near the Leicester region. It sits, still sleepy; Dedue can see one light on in the kitchen glowing in welcome. For the past year or so, it has always been on at this time. 

Dedue is not sure what he’s done to deserve this light, but he is happy nonetheless. He parks, collects his knife, and heads to his small space in the barn for a morning harvest.

ii.

“Dedue, is that you?”

Annette pokes her head past the doorway. “You didn’t say anything, but we saw your car.”

Dedue looks up. He has a shiitake mushroom in one hand; the other holds his knife and rests on the log.

“You were all still asleep,” he says, and holds up a sack full of fungi. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I got started a bit early.”

“Ah!” Annette laughs, and the sound rings hearty through the semi-darkness of the barn. “Good thing we left the light on for you.”

Dedue shakes his head. “There is no need to do that. I don’t want to waste your electricity.”

“Nothing we do for you is wasted, Dedue,” Annette says, and tilts her head back towards the house. “There’s breakfast when you’re finished.”

“There is no need—,” Dedue begins, but stops.

“Thank you,” he says instead.

iii.

Dedue rents space at the Dominic-von Martritz farm to grow shiitake, of which he is very fond. He used to buy it from their stand at the farmer’s market, but he always ended up with so much that he decided it would be easier to rent space from them to grow the mushrooms himself. Now he drives two hours every week to where Faerghian roughness flattens out into Leicester meadow.

In addition to the rent, he helps out in the summer with the tomato harvest and in the winter with the cabbages and radishes. There are blueberries, too, and a small orchard in the back, with a swing built by the von Martritz brother. Somehow, this farm is detached from the rest of the harsh land of Faerghus. Things seem to grow easily here: the soil is something magical.

So, too, is Annette. Dedue believes in magic—the kind that is seeped in land, and people—and knows that Annette was born from that. There is something in the way she talks, the way her hands rest on her wife, the moments she stands on tiptoe to see Dedue’s work or pluck an ear of corn, that insists her heart is much bigger than her small body can contain.

“Mercie!” Dedue can hear Annette laughing again as he approaches the door to the house, his work done, his mushrooms safe. “We can’t _just_ have sweets for breakfast. Look at how huge Dedue is. He needs protein.” 

“There are eggs, my love,” Mercedes soothes, her voice sounding closer than Annette’s. Dedue’s hand stills, pre-knock.

“And here he is.”

She opens the door and greets him with a smile. The sun, now plump in the sky, beams onto her face as she beckons him in.

_Good morning, my dear followers. Thank you all for your kind comments on last week’s post. The owners of the farm are very grateful for your interest and hope that you will see them with a smile every Sunday at the Fhirdiad market._

_For those of you who asked for more vegetable-based recipes, you are in luck. Today’s recipe comes from a wonderful friend and her husband. They are based in Almyra, but visit often, usually bearing many gifts._

_Sincerely, Dedue._

i.

“Please,” Dedue says, slightly strained. “Prof—I mean, Byleth. You may sit here. I do not have any pregnancy pillows, but you may arrange the throw pillows however you wish.”

“I would be concerned if you had pregnancy pillows,” Byleth says with a breathy laugh. She has one hand resting on her very round belly, the other on the doorframe; she is six months pregnant and Dedue has never seen her so winded. “But thank you, Dedue.” 

“Yeah, thanks, Dedue!” Claude is right behind his wife, hovering for support. “Sorry about us dropping in last minute. I got called to the capital, but Dimitri’s place is so busy I didn’t think it would be good for By…and you’re the only one with space…” 

Dedue shakes his head. “Do not worry. You are always welcome here.” 

He steps over to take Claude’s bags and then moves aside. To his amusement, Byleth is not the only one waddling; Claude is matching her steps exactly just in case she falls or tips over. Though Dedue has never been pregnant (and never will be), he understands the feeling, and how new it can be for someone who has never felt such support.

As he takes the stairs, one bag slips from his hand and tumbles with the weight of several…vegetables.

“Ah,” Byleth says, gesturing towards a lone potato. “We brought some vegetables for you from home.”

Dedue bends over to pick up the potato. He can certainly buy them in Faerghus, but they are different here than in Almyra—the ones from Byleth and Claude are always robust, the taste almost rich, the color a pale gold. Faerghian potatoes are pebbles at best.

“By insisted,” Claude says, grinning next to her on the couch. “But I can’t say I haven’t missed that stew you made last time.”

“I will make it again tonight,” Dedue says immediately. He peers into the sack that held the potato and sees onions, garlic, and tiny bags of spices.

Byleth frowns at Claude. “You don’t have to, Dedue. Don’t listen to him.”

But Dedue will not budge. For his friends, he will cook anything.

ii.

The stew is a lovely medley of vegetables bubbled together until the flavors find each other, like fish in the sea separated by waves. In his hands Dedue holds the golden potatoes and the knobby garlic bulbs, which smell like home and also like places he has never been. He sheds the papery skin on the onions like they are delicate dresses and saves them for stock. Even the naked onions in their pearly swell look blessed in the cold darkness of the evening.

Claude is on business, and Byleth is on the couch napping. The fireplace is whispering, down almost to its last ashes.

This is his home, but also the home of many others. He would not know how to feel that way in Faerghus without them.

iii.

When graduation was near, Dedue considered going home to Duscur.

“Of course we would love you to come home,” his mother had said over the phone. In the background Dedue could hear his siblings playing. He could hear music, perhaps from a neighbor, filtering through the windows. He could feel something tugging in his chest.

“But if you feel like you should stay,” she continued, “you can do that. We will always be here. This home does not move, so you can create a new home there, if you want to.”

Dedue looked out of his own window, to the courtyard below. He saw Sylvain and Felix bickering, but Sylvain was laughing, and Felix had his hand on Sylvain’s wrist the way lovers hold on to the things they never want to let go of. He heard Mercedes clapping to Annette’s singing, and saw Dimitri nodding along next to her, his rhythm slightly off. He heard Ashe reading aloud to Ingrid from a book about the way men in armor fight for their ideals. He had learned to do the same in Duscur, and at Garreg Mach, too.

So he stayed. In the winter, he goes home to Duscur. The rest of the year is spent here in Faerghus, cooking: not for himself, but for the people.

iv.

“Let me taste,” Byleth says.

She elbows Claude aside—pregnancy has not dulled that part of her—and looks expectantly into the pot. The stew is murmuring gently. It is almost finished, but Dedue hands her a spoon anyway.

“Beloved,” Claude begins, hand on Byleth’s elbow. “Why don’t we wait until—?”

Byleth ignores him and scoops a heaping spoonful of stew into her mouth.

Claude nods. “Okay then,” he says, and looks beyond her to grin at Dedue. “You can have the head start, if you want. For the baby.”

“I will never tire of your cooking,” Byleth says, sighing. Dedue wonders for a moment if the baby will be deliberate and quiet like his mother, if she will crawl with some kind of unknown determination towards whatever comes next. “Even if it’s something new, it always reminds me of something I used to eat when I was younger. All the flavors are like…”

She pauses, tapping idly at the swell of her bump.

“Home,” she finishes. “I don’t really know where that is since Jeralt moved us around so much. Maybe Garreg Mach. But it tastes familiar.”

Dedue turns off the stove.

“Well,” Dedue says. “This can be your home.”

He nods at the pot of stew, at his kitchen, and finally at Claude.

“So let us eat.”

_Hello, everyone. I am happy to hear that the Almyran vegetable stew was so popular. It is very nutritious, and good for everyone, not just those expecting. For everyone asking how to procure high-quality vegetables, I always recommend going to your local market and getting to know the farmers in your community. You can also have produce shipped from Almyran farms. However, all of my recipes can be made using whatever ingredients you have on hand. What matters most is the care you put into making it._

_Today I have a question for you all. What tastes like home to you?_

_Sincerely, Dedue._

i.

Duscur is a flurry of flowers. The green here is almost blinding after so much time spent in Faerghus, where the colors simply _try_ but do not often succeed. From the train windows the scenery is overwhelming—Dedue blinks more than usual, trying to trick his brain into remembering that once, long ago, this vibrant world was his home. These sparkling hues blossomed from underneath his feet. The petals in the air were the first to tell him secrets long before his younger siblings could speak.

“Dedue!”

When he arrives at the station, his sisters rush him; his younger brother takes his bag and slings an arm around his shoulder (because he is already _taller—_ but _how?_ ).

Through the commotion, he sees his mother walking slowly from the stairwell to the platform. 

“Welcome home, my star,” she breathes, and Dedue cannot hurry to her fast enough.

ii.

At home, Dedue does not have to cook, though he wants to. He offers to help with dinner, but his older sister barricades him from the kitchen, telling him she doesn’t want him messing up her meal.

“You probably forgot how to cook since you’ve been over there so long,” she says, clutching a giant prawn in one hand. It still seems to be alive. “What do they eat over there, anyway? Worms?”

“How rude!” His younger sister smacks the older one on the arm. “Come on, have you seen King Dimitri? No way a man like _that_ eats _worms._ ”

“And don’t forget,” his mother says from her spot at the dining table, comfortable between her somewhat prodigal son and another daughter. “Your brother is famous over there for being a cook.”

Dedue clears his throat. “Mother, I am not a cook. It is merely a hobby.”

“But people talk about your blog everywhere,” his sister says, and pulls out her phone. “I’ll show you, mama. Everyone talks about it! In Faerghus, in Duscur, in Brigid, in Almyra…" 

He tries to shrink, but his mother grabs his elbow. Her grip is as firm as it was when he was six and getting into fights with neighbor boys. “Stay,” she says. “Just because you are a famous man now doesn’t mean you can leave without my permission.”

The chatter around him is glowing and warm, like the fireplace of his home in Faerghus. He settles easily into the space next to his mother as if a year had not passed since the last time he was there. He explains to her what a blog is. He explains it, again, when his father returns from the smithy.

Even so, they still believe he is a famous chef in that unforgiving place. Everyone knows him in Duscur, they say, because of this so-called “online journal.” They see his photos and read his recipes. They adore the stories of his friends, of the King of Almyra and his strong wife, of the lovely women who own the farm, and countless others. When they see the blacksmith Molinaro, they ask how Dedue is doing. Always.

“It’s as if you are always here with us,” his mother says after the meal. 

Dedue takes her hand in his. The back of her hand is papery thin, like the skin of an onion. That he cherishes cooking now and learned to do so from his mother is not a coincidence.

“I am,” he says to her, in their language. The words are sweet on his tongue after having hidden for so long.

iii.

His family sends him home with a gigantic cooler of food, packed so full that he fears he will not cook for weeks. Last night, his siblings in the kitchen were not only making dinner: they were cooking for him, so he would not be lonely at home.

“I cannot carry all of these,” he says, but everyone knows it’s a lie.

“You _will_.” His older sister, the one who thinks Faerghians eat worms, shoves one last box in his hand. “Here—your favorite dessert. You probably haven’t had it since the last time you were here.”

His youngest sister, only seven, tries to hide behind his leg.

“You didn’t have to—,” he begins.

“No.” The Molinaro blacksmith shakes his head. “We did. Just say thank you, my son.” 

Dedue imagines his freezer back home and how full it will be. How, months from now, he will open it to find carefully wrapped packages of silky fish, of filling pasta, of jars and jars of pickled Duscur vegetables and smoked bear meats. How the cakes from his sister will brighten the gloom of early spring in Faerghus. How, if Ashe drops in one day on his way out of town, he will have some piece of home to serve him. How he could share with Byleth and the baby on their next visit. How pleased Dimitri will be, to be able to eat such authentic Duscur food on his next visit to Dedue’s, not as the king but as a common friend.

“Yes,” Dedue says, nodding. “Thank you.”

He hoists the cooler onto his shoulder, gently peels his youngest sister off his leg, and waves as he steps on the train. The package is heavy, but it is nothing compared to the feeling of leaving Duscur.

_Hello, my dear followers. I apologize for the lack of posting and confess that since returning home from Duscur, I have felt uneasy in Faerghus. It is cold here, not like home. Spring does not feel like spring._

_However, I am not alone. Today’s guest blogger knows my situation well, and I am honored to share this space with her. Petra lives in Adrestia with her partner, a star of the Mittelfrank Opera House, but is originally from Brigid. Like me, she only visits her home country once a year._

_I hope you enjoy this dish as much as I did. Substitutions for hard-to-find Brigidian ingredients are in the recipe card below._

_Sincerely, Dedue._

i.

“Brigid is sour,” Petra says, pursing her lips as she holds up a tube of tamarind paste. “Here. Taste.”

Dedue does not consider himself an impolite person. He simply hesitates. “How…sour?”

Petra laughs, and her thick braid swings like a jeweled pendulum behind her. “I cannot tell you that. It is my taste, so I do not know.” She shakes the tube in his face again. “Please.”

Dedue holds out his hand and watches as Petra squeezes a dollop a sticky, caramel-colored paste onto his fingertip. It looks almost like a candy, like the kind Ashe hoards when he’s writing.

But it does not taste the same _at all._ Tamarind is sharp and tangy, with the sweetness following behind, but not close enough. The sourness is like a shout rather than a suggestion. He purses his lips just as Petra did a few seconds ago and swallows thickly.

“Oh,” he says. “Yes. It is quite sour.”

“You will not think so when I am finished,” she says, and sets the tamarind paste on the counter along with a myriad of other jarred spices and sauces. There is also a package of fresh fish, their glassy eyes staring out into nothing, and a huge basket of green leafy vegetables. “Now please leave. I need the whole kitchen to work.” 

Dedue nods and makes his exit. He understands. Sometimes a single pot is not enough to hold all the things he needs to feel, or say.

ii.

As Petra cooks, Dedue takes a break to visit his garden, and the woman in it.

Dorothea is sitting on a stool between trellises of morning glories and bitter melons. She has her lace fan in her hand, but it lays open, motionless, in her lap. 

She smiles when Dedue comes over.

“Your garden is very…you,” she says. “It reminds me of the greenhouse back at Garreg Mach." 

“That is what I want,” Dedue agrees. The Garreg Mach greenhouse was the single building he wanted to protect most during the war. “Though I do not use magic here.”

Dorothea hums, but she sounds as if the music is elsewhere—back in Adrestia, perhaps, or in the kitchen. Or further, to Brigid.

“Dedue,” she finally says, and when she speaks her voice shakes only at the end of his name, like the moment a raindrop falls from a leaf. “Are you happy here?”

Perhaps her question is really _is Petra happy with me in Adrestia,_ but Dedue does not consider himself impolite. He only hesitates.

“I am happy,” he says, and means it. “But it is because of the people here. They are my home. Faerghus is not my home.”

He continues. “If Dimi—if the king were to abdicate and move, and his knight Ingrid with him...if Margrave Gautier and Duke Fraldarius were to go, and our friend Ashe…if they all left Faerghus, then I too would leave.”

There is a beat of silence.

“I would leave with her,” Dorothea says quietly. “If she wanted to go home. But—she hasn’t said anything.”

Dedue thinks about the phone call with his mother. If she hadn’t said anything, he would be there now, cooking with his sisters, wrestling with his brothers, helping his father at the smithy. He would be the second blacksmith Molinaro.

But then again, he would not be here.

“She will go wherever your heart is.” Dedue picks a rose off a nearby bush and hands it to Dorothea, who cups it in her palm like a baby bird. “So you must figure that out.”

iii.

Brigid cuisine is the most exciting food Dedue has ever eaten, and it is so different from his own usual meals and the food in Duscur. Where Duscurian food is subtle, Brigidian dishes are boastful. Petra’s spread has the air of a grand dance, and reminds him of the feasts they used to have at school after battles—plates overflowing with indulgence, cups full, the dining hall loud like a rushing waterfall of relief that their comrades were safe.

His plates are piled with treasure mounds of meat and vegetables on a sea of rice. It is enough for him to forget the sting of the tamarind paste from earlier.

He cannot get enough of it. He could eat this every day.

“This is the taste of Brigid,” Petra says, gesturing. The bracelets on her arm tinkle in the steam rising from the dishes. “I learned these recipes from my mother, as you learned from yours.”

Dedue nods and sinks his knife into a piece of meat—it cuts through like butter. He is in heaven.

“You could have food like this all the time if you were back in Brigid,” Dedue points out in between bites.

Dorothea’s hand freezes. She looks at him, wide-eyed, a slender doe caught in a blizzard. 

“Brigid can be anywhere,” Petra says nonchalantly, shrugging. “I miss the sound of the animals of home. And the heat of summer, how it feels as if the sun is in my bones.” 

She turns to Dorothea and smiles. The look on her face is warmer than any of the food on the table, of the summer she speaks of.

“But _you_ are not just anywhere,” she says.

Dorothea buries her face in her napkin. Dedue rises from the table, mumbling something about fetching drinks.

_My friends, today I am sharing some photos of a room in my house that I use to make cheese. If the idea of making your own cheese intimidates you, do not worry: I too felt this way. It is with practice that one becomes comfortable with cheese-making. You must simply begin by trying it the first time._

_I have made several cheeses over the past few years, including some unusual ones: horseradish cheese and pickled plum cheese, to name a couple. One of my closest and dearest friends enjoys them to the fullest._

_Sincerely, Dedue._

i.

After the war, Dimitri discovered he could no longer taste his food. From the trauma, he explained to his friends as he recovered in the hospital. Each of them came a different day to keep him company: Sylvain on Monday, Felix on Tuesday, Annette and Mercedes on Wednesday and Thursday, Ashe and Dedue on the weekend. They kept this up for months until Dimitri was released. 

And still he could not taste. At Byleth and Claude’s wedding, he had a sliver of cake: “It will only be wasted on me. Please, feed more to your other guests! I am of no consequence.” When they visited the Margrave or the Duke for grand dinners, Dimitri would have only one course as opposed to the full: “I’m sure Felix would be happy to know I’m not wasting his resources. His men need more for the winter.”

Of course he said it all smiling. A king should always give more to his subjects than he would have for himself.

But there were flavors he missed and could not forget, no matter how much time passed.

“Cinnamon when it’s snowing outside,” he’d said, nursing his tea. “And grilled fish in the summer. Or pies with spring fruit. I don’t mind if it’s only just a—a shadow, I suppose, of what it really tastes like. I just want to remember the taste of charcoal and sugar.”

He had smiled again. “Those were so comforting to me.”

So Dedue decided to start making cheese.

ii.

Sylvain had lent him a copy of an old cookbook found in the Gautier kitchens, and in it was a step-by-step guide on cheese making. To Dedue’s surprise, it was not so difficult. It only required a handful of ingredients and did not involve any fancy appliances.

“You think cheese will help His Highness taste again?” Sylvain had questioned when Dedue called with the idea. “I dunno, Dedue. He’s tried everything. He even went to therapy for it.”

“Perhaps it will not work,” Dedue admitted. The idea really was a shot in the dark. “But cheese is pungent, and with extra ingredients, it may assist in waking his taste buds.” 

He opened his fridge and found what he was looking for: a jar of pure horseradish, grated himself from roots he’d found the last time he had gone foraging. Next to that was a sealed cup of pickled plums, their shiny round bodies bobbing in pink juice.

And then there was the tamarind. 

“If he does not like it, I will give it to you, Sylvain,” Dedue promised.

iii. 

In Dedue’s house, Dimitri is simply Dimitri. He is not the King of Faerghus, and not even a former prince. He is a simple person with hair that reminds Dedue of the way wheat fields shine in the summertime. He is just a man who enjoys the forbidden giddiness of slipping away from his royal duties for a few hours, and who misses his friends fiercely.

“So this one,” Dimitri says, sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees. “Is—horseradish cheese?”

Dedue nods. “It is quite pungent.”

Dimitri looks at the next plate. “And the pinkish one next to it—plums?”

“Pickled,” Dedue corrects.

“And this last one?" 

The last one Dimitri points to is not a pure cheese, but a dessert. Dedue had spoken to Petra a couple of days ago inquiring about tamarind cheese. She was nearly offended, but then suggested he could make cheesecake instead with the leftover paste she had left him. 

“Tamarind cheesecake.”

Dimitri clasps his hands together. “This is exciting,” he says, cheeks rosy.

Normally Dimitri would have told Dedue this was unnecessary. _Why go through such lengths for me?_ He would not have been upset, but he would have deemed the cheeses a waste. _I am a man who cannot taste. There is no point._

But in Dedue’s house, Dimitri is a different person.

“Which one should I try first?” He picks up the fork and hovers over the horseradish cheese. “Shall I go in order?”

“You may choose whichever you would like.” Dedue is sitting on the armchair across from the couch, his arms folded over his chest. “There is no order.”

“Ah, Dedue,” Dimitri laughs. “But surely you think I should have the cheesecake last, right?”

Dedue is silent. 

“Okay,” Dimitri says, his voice bordering on mischievous. “Then I’ll have the cheesecake first, if you won’t stop me.”

Dedue winces as the fork slides into the cake.

iv. 

“What did you think?”

Dimitri pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It was quite _spicy,_ ” he says, and breathes out hard. “It’s as if I can feel it in my brain.”

Dedue nods.

“I’d like more,” Dimitri continues, and sniffles a bit. “To take back to the palace. Perhaps if I eat some every day, my taste buds will shock themselves back into working!”

“I will go pack them up,” Dedue says, and stands.

“Thank you, Dedue. For everything.” Dimitri, face red and nose running, smiles. “I cannot imagine this new Faerghus without you.”

_My dear followers, I did not expect to have such a warm welcome at the Fhirdiad market last weekend. You were all so kind to purchase my cheeses. I cannot thank you enough. Annette and Mercedes, too, are grateful that you all nearly cleaned out their stand._

_The blog will be taking a break for the next month or so, as I am going home to Duscur earlier than usual this year. I will have guest bloggers submit posts so that you, and your kitchens, will not be lonely._

_Have you eaten today? If not, please exit this window and do so._

_Sincerely, Dedue._

“Can the King of Faerghus even go on vacation?”

Annette hands Dimitri a packed sandwich as the train snakes through tunnels in the mountains and over rough patches of land. They will reach their destination soon, but Dimitri is hungry, and Annette and Mercedes packed lunches for everyone.

“I have retainers, you know,” Dimitri says, unwrapping his food. “It’s alright. It’s only for two days. Fodlan won’t collapse just because the King of Faerghus wants to go on a trip with his friends.” 

Felix stares at him grimly. “Is that so? Did you learn _anything_ in school?” 

“Stop it, Felix,” Ingrid cuts in. “His Highness is right. We learned about war in school—and lived through it. Times are different now.” 

Sylvain rests a hand on Felix’s knee. “Don’t be so anxious, Fe,” he says quietly. “Ingrid’s right. Times are different now.”

Felix’s shoulders relax, and Mercedes hands him another wrapped sandwich. 

“I can’t wait to see what your home is like, Dedue,” she says, glancing towards the window. “I remember you always talked about flowers, but I don’t see any yet.”

“They will come,” Dedue says, and points west. “We are still very much in Faerghus.” 

“What will you cook for us when we get to your house, Dedue?” Ashe is practically sparkling. “Bear curry? Something else? I love Duscurian food.”

Dedue thinks about it. He thinks as Mercedes slips her hand into Annette’s and they look out the window to search for flowers. He thinks as Felix splits his sandwich to give the other half to Dimitri, who is still looking for food. He thinks, and thinks, as Ingrid rests her head on Sylvain’s shoulder to nap the rest of the way.

Outside, the ice-grey sky breaks. In the distance, a patch of sunlight rolls through the clouds.

“Whatever you would like,” he finally says. “Anything, for you all.”


End file.
